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f 


FOUR  DAYS 


HETTY    HEMENWAY 


CHAUNCEY  WETMORE  WELLS 

1872-1933 


This  book  belonged  to  Cn"auncey  Wetmore  Wells.  He  taught  in 
Yale  College,  of  which  he  was  a  graduate,  from  1897  to  1901,  and 
from  1901  to  1933  at  this  University. 

Chauncey  Wells  was,  essentially,  a  scholar.  The  range  of  his  read 
ing  was  wide,  the  breadth  of  his  literary  sympathy  as  uncommon 
as  the  breadth  of  his  human  sympathy.  He  was  less  concerned 
with  the  collection  of  facts  than  with  meditation  upon  their  sig 
nificance.  His  distinctive  power  lay  in  his  ability  to  give  to  his 
students  a  subtle  perception  of  the  inner  implications  of  form, 
of  manners,  of  taste,  of  the  really  disciplined  and  discriminating 
mind.  And  this  perception  appeared  not  only  in  his  thinking  and 
teaching  but  also  in  all  his  relations  with  books  and  with  men. 


FOUR  DAYS 


If  you  hear  I'm  missing,  there  is  still  a  good  chance." 


FOUR  DAYS 

THE   STORY  OF  A  WAR  MARRIAGE 

BY 

HETTY  HEMENWAY 

WITH   FRONTISPIECE  BY 

RICHARD  CULTER 


BOSTON 
LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 

1918 


Copyright,  1917, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved 
Published,  September,  1917 

IN  MEMORIAM 


•  •; 


Set  up  and  clcctrotyped  by  J.  S.  Gushing  Co.,  Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A 
Presswork  by  S.  J.  Parkhill  &  Co.,  Boston,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


FOUR  DAYS 


863749 


WITH  savage  pity  Marjorie  regarded  a 
sobbing  girl  whose  face  was  distorted,  and 
whose  palsied  hands  were  trying  to  straighten 
her  veil  and  push  back  stray  wisps  of  hair. 
Marjorie  thought:  "What  a  fool  she  is  to 
cry  like  that!  Her  nose  is  red;  she's  a 
sight.  I  can  control  myself.  I  can  control 
myself." 

An  elderly  man  with  an  austere  face, 
standing  beside  Marjorie,  started  to  light 
a  cigarette.  His  hands  trembled  violently 
and  the  match  flickered  and  went  out. 

Marjorie's  heart  was  beating  so  fast  that 
it  made  her  feel  sick. 

A  locomotive  shrieked,  adding  its  voice 
to  the  roar  of  traffic  at  Victoria  Station. 
There  came  the  pounding  hiss  of  escaping 
steam.  The  crowd  pressed  close  to  the  rails 
and  peered  down  the  foggy  platform.  A 
train  had  stopped,  and  the  engine  was  panting 
close  to  the  gate-rail.  A  few  men  in  khaki 
were  alighting  from  compartments.  In  a 

[3] 


FOUR  DAYS 

tnOiHent' there  was  a  stamping  of  many  feet, 
and  above  the  roar  and  confusion  in  the 
station  rose  the  eager  voices  of  multitudes  of 
boys  talking,  shouting,  calling  to  each  other. 

Marjorie  saw  Leonard  before  he  saw  her. 
He  was  walking  with  three  men  —  joking, 
laughing  absent-mindedly,  while  his  eyes 
searched  for  a  face  in  the  crowd.  She  waited 
a  moment,  hidden,  suffocated  with  anticipa 
tion,  her  heart  turning  over  and  over,  until 
he  said  a  nonchalant  good-bye  to  his  com 
panions,  who  were  pounced  upon  by  eager 
relatives.  Then  she  crept  up  behind  and 
put  both  her  hands  about  his  wrist. 

"Hello,  Len." 

Joy  leaped  to  his  eyes. 

"Marjie!" 

Impossible  to  say  another  word.  For 
seconds  they  became  one  of  the  speechless 
couples,  standing  dumbly  in  the  great  dingy 
station,  unnoticed  and  unnoticing. 

"Where's  the  carriage?"  said  Leonard, 
looking  blindly  about  him. 

"Outside,   of  course,   Len." 

A  crooked  man  in  black   livery,  with   a 
cockade  in  his  hat,  who  had  been  standing 
reverently  in  the  background,  waddled  for 
ward,  touching  his  hat. 
[4] 


FOUR  DAYS 

"Well,  Burns,  how  are  you?  Glad  to 
see  you." 

"Very  well,  sir,  and  thank  you,  sir. 
'Appy,  most  'appy  to  see  you  back,  sir. 
Pardon,  sir,  this  way."  His  old  face  twitched 
and  his  eyes  devoured  the  young  lieutenant. 

A  footman  was  standing  at  the  horses' 
heads,  but  the  big  bays,  champing  their 
bits,  and  scattering  foam,  crouched  away 
from  the  tall  young  soldier  when  he  put 
out  a  careless,  intimate  hand  and  patted 
their  snorting  noses.  He  swaggered  a  little, 
for  all  of  a  sudden  he  longed  to  put  his  head 
on  their  arching  necks  and  cry. 

"You've  got  the  old  pair  out;  I  thought 
they  had  gone  to  grass,"  he  said  in  his  most 
matter-of-fact  tone  to  the  pink-faced  foot 
man,  who  was  hardly  more  than  a  child. 

"Well,  sir,  the  others  were  taken  by  the 
Government.  Madam  gave  them  all  away 
except  Starlight  and  Ginger  Girl.  There  is 
only  me  and  Burns  and  another  boy  under 
military  age  in  the  stables  now,  sir." 

Inside  the  carriage  Leonard  and  Marjorie 
were  suddenly  overawed  by  a  strange, 
delicious  shyness.  They  looked  at  each 
other  gravely,  like  two  children  at  a  party, 
dumb,  exquisitely  thrilled.  It  was  ten 

[5] 


FOUR  DAYS 

months  ago  that  they  had  said  a  half-tearful, 
half-laughing  good-bye  to  each  other  on  the 
windy,  sunny  pier  at  Hoboken.  They  had 
been  in  love  two  months,  and  engaged  two 
weeks.  Leonard  was  sailing  for  England  to 
keep  a  rowing  engagement,  but  he  was  to 
return  to  America  in  a  month.  They  were 
to  have  an  early  autumn  wedding.  Marjorie 
chose  her  wedding-dress  and  was  busy  with 
her  trousseau.  She  had  invited  her  brides 
maids.  It  was  to  be  a  brilliant,  conventional 
affair  —  flowers,  music,  countless  young 
people  dancing  under  festoons  and  colored 
lights.  In  August  the  war  broke  out. 
Leonard  had  been  in  training  and  at  the 
front  from  the  first.  Marjorie  crossed  the 
precarious  ocean,  to  be  in  England  for  his 
first  leave.  It  was  now  May  :  they  were  to 
be  married  at  last. 

"  Marjie." 

"Len." 

"  I  have  just  four  days,  you  know,  darling. 
That's  all  I  could  get.  We've  been  trans 
ferred  to  the  Dardanelles;  else  I  wouldn't 
have  got  off  at  all." 

"Four  days,"  murmured  Marjorie.  She 
looked  up,  and  met  his  eyes,  and  stared,  and 
could  not  look  away.  "It's  a  long,  long 

[6] 


FOUR  DAYS 

time,  four  days,"  she  said,  without  knowing 
what  she  was  saying.  All  at  once  she  put 
her  hands  over  her  eyes,  and,  pressing 
her  head  fiercely  against  Leonard's  arm, 
she  began  to  cry  and  to  laugh,  continu 
ing  to  repeat,  senselessly,  "It's  a  long,  long 
time." 

And  Leonard,  trembling  all  over,  kissed 
her  on  the  back  of  her  head,  which  was  all 
he  could  reach. 

They  drew  near  to  Richmond,  the  familiar 
avenues  and  the  cool,  trim  lawn,  and  the 
great  trees.  Marjorie's  tongue  all  at  once 
loosened;  she  chattered  whimsically,  like 
an  excited  child. 

"It's  home,  home,  home,  and  they're 
all  waiting  for  us  —  mater  and  your  father 
and  all  the  family.  He's  been  in  a  perfect 
state  all  day,  poor  old  dear,  though  he  hasn't 
an  idea  any  one's  noticed  it.  Little  Herbert's 
the  only  one  that's  behaved  a  bit  natural  — 
and  old  Nannie.  I've  been  rushing  about 
your  room,  sitting  in  all  the  chairs,  and 
saying,  'To-night  he'll  be  sitting  in  this 
chair;  to-night  he  may  be  standing  in  this 
very  spot  before  the  fire;  to-night  he  may 
be  looking  out  of  this  window.'  O,  Len, 
we're  to  be  married  at  half-past  eight,  and 
[7] 


FOUR  DAYS 

we're  going  in  motors  so  as  not  to  waste  any 
time.  I  haven't  even  read  over  the  marriage 
service.  I  haven't  the  vaguest  idea  what  to 
do  or  say.  But  what  difference  does  that 
make!  Do  you  see,  Len?  Do  you  see?" 
She  stopped  and  squeezed  Leonard's  hand, 
for  she  saw  that  he  was  suddenly  speechless. 
"There  they  are,"  lifting  the  blind,  "mother 
and  little  Herbert;  and  see  the  servants 
peeking  from  the  wing." 

They  swept  grandly  around  the  bend  in  the 
avenue.  The  windows  of  the  great  house 
blazed  a  welcome.  All  the  sky  was  mother- 
of-pearl  and  tender.  In  the  air  was  the  tang 
of  spring.  In  the  white  light  Marjorie  saw 
Leonard's  lips  quiver  and  he  frowned.  She 
had  a  sudden  twinge  of  jealousy,  swallowed  up 
by  an  immense  tenderness. 

"There's  mother,"  he  said. 

"Hello,  Len,  old  boy." 

His  father  was  on  the  steps.  Leonard 
greeted  him  with  the  restraint  and  the  jocose 
matter-of-factness  that  exist  between  men 
who  love  each  other.  He  kissed  his  mother  a 
little  hungrily,  just  as  he  had  when  he  was  a 
small  boy  back  from  his  first  homesick  term 
at  Eton,  and  fluttered  the  heart  of  that 
frail,  austere  lady,  who  had  borne  this  big, 

[8] 


FOUR  DAYS 

strapping  boy  —  a  feat  of  which  she  was 
sedately  but  passionately  proud. 

Little  Herbert,  all  clumsiness  and  fat  legs 
and  arms,  did  a  good  deal  of  hugging  and 
squealing,  and  Miss  Shake,  Leonard's  old 
governess,  wept  discreetly  and  worshipfully 
in  the  background. 

"Look  at  'im!  Ain't  he  grand?  Glory 
be  to  God  —  bless  'im,  my  baby ! "  cried 
Irish  Nannie,  who  had  suckled  this  soldier 
of  England;  and  loudly  she  wept,  her  pride 
and  her  joy  unrebuked  and  unashamed. 

At  the  risk  of  annoying  Leonard,  they 
must  follow  him  about,  waiting  upon  him 
at  tea-time,  touching  him  wistfully,  won- 
deringly,  for  was  it  not  himself,  their  own 
Leonard,  who  had  come  back  to  them  for 
a  few  days?  And  instead  of  himself,  it 
might  have  been  just  a  name,  —  Leonard 
Leeds,  —  one  among  a  list  of  hundreds  of 
others ;  and  written  opposite  each  name  one 
of  the  three  words,  Wounded,  Missing,  Dead. 

Jealously  his  own  family  drew  aside  and 
let  Marjorie  go  upstairs  with  him  alone.  She 
had  the  first  right ;  she  was  his  bride.  Mr. 
Leeds  plucked  little  Herbert  back  by  his 
sailor  collar  and  put  his  arm  through  his 
wife's.  Together  they  watched  the  two 

[9] 


FOUR  DAYS 

slender  figures  ascending  the  broad  stair 
case.  Each  parent  was  thinking,  "He's  hers 
now,  and  they're  young.  We  mustn't  be 
selfish,  they  have  such  a  short  time  to  be 
happy  in,  poor  dears." 

"Looks  fit,  doesn't  he?"  said  the  father, 
cheerfully,  patting  his  wife's  arm.  Inwardly 
he  was  thinking,  "How  fortunate  no  woman 
can  appreciate  all  that  boy  has  been 
through!" 

"Do  you  think  so?  I  thought  he  looked 
terribly  thin,"  she  answered,  absently.  To 
herself  she  was  saying,  "No  one  —  not  even 
his  father  —  will  ever  know  what  that  boy 
has  seen  and  suffered." 

Little  Herbert,  watching  with  big  eyes, 
suddenly  wriggled  his  hand  from  his  father's 
grasp. 

"Wait,  Leonard,  wait  for  me!  I  am 
coming ! " 

Upstairs  old  Nannie  was  officiating.  She 
was  struggling  with  Leonard's  kit,  which 
resembled,  she  thought,  more  the  rummage 
box  of  a  gypsy  pedler  than  the  luggage  of  a 
gentleman. 

The  young  officer  had  taken  off  his  great 
coat  and  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the 
hearth.  He  loomed  up  very  big  in  the 
[10] 


FOUR  DAYS 

demure  room,  a  slender,  boyish  figure,  still 
too  slim  for  his  shoulder-width  and  height, 
clad  in  a  ragged  uniform,  a  pistol  bulging 
from  one  hip  at  his  belt.  He  looked  about 
him  at  the  bright  hangings,  with  a  wandering 
gaze  that  reverted  to  a  spot  of  sunlight  on 
Marjorie's  hair  and  rested  there. 

"  I'm  all  spinning  round,"  he  said  with  a 
puzzled  smile,  "  like  a  dream." 

He  continued  to  stare  with  dazed,  smiling 
eyes  on  the  sunbeam.  His  hair  was  cropped 
close  like  a  convict's,  which  accentuated  the 
leanness  of  his  face  and  the  taut,  rigid  lines 
about  his  mouth.  Under  his  discolored 
uniform,  the  body  was  spare  almost  to  the 
point  of  emaciation.  Through  a  rent  in 
his  coat,  a  ragged  shirt  revealed  the  bare 
skin.  He  looked  at  it  ruefully,  still  smiling. 
"I'm  rather  a  mess,  I  expect,"  he  said. 
"Tried  to  fix  up  in  the  train,  but  I  was  too 
far  gone  in  dirt  to  succeed  much." 

Marjorie,  with  the  instinct  of  a  kitten 
that  comforts  its  master,  went  up  to  him 
and  rubbed  her  head  against  the  torn 
arm. 

"Don't,"  he  said,  hoarsely;  "I'm  too 
dirty."  He  put  out  a  hand,  and  softly 
touched  her  dress.  "Is  it  pink?"  he  asked, 


FOUR  DAYS 

"or  does  it  only  look  so  in  this  light?  It 
feels  awfully  downy  and  nice." 

She  noticed  that  two  of  his  nails  were 
crushed  and  discolored,  and  the  half  of  one 
was  torn  away.  She-  bent  down  and  kissed 
it,  to  hide  the  tears  which  were  choking  her. 
She  felt  his  eyes  on  her,  and  she  knew  that 
look  which  made  her  whole  being  ache  with 
tenderness  —  that  numb,  dazed  look.  She 
had  seen  it  before  in  the  eyes  of  very  young 
soldiers  home  on  their  first  leave  —  mute 
young  eyes  that  contained  the  unutterable 
secrets  of  the  battlefield,  but  revealed  none. 
She  had  seen  them  since  she  came  to  England, 
sitting  with  their  elders,  gray-haired  fathers 
who  talked  war,  war,  war,  while  the  young 
tongues  —  once  so  easily  braggart  —  re 
mained  speechless. 

What  had  they  seen,  these  silent  young 
sters  —  sensitive,  joyous  children,  whom  the 
present  day  had  nurtured  so  cleanly  and  so 
tenderly?  Their  bringing-up  had  been  the 
complex  result  of  so  much  enlightened 
effort.  War,  pestilence,  famine,  slaughter, 
were  only  names  in  a  history  book  to  them. 
They  thought  hardship  was  sport.  A  blithe 
summer  month  had  plunged  them  into  the 
most  terrible  war  of  the  scarred  old  earth. 
[12] 


FOUR  DAYS 

The  battlefields  where  they  had  mustered, 
stunned,  but  tingling  with  vigor  and  eager 
ness,  were  becoming  the  vast  cemeteries 
of  their  generation.  The  field  where  lay 
the  young  dead  was  their  place  in  the  sun. 
The  still  hospital  where  lay  the  maimed 
was  their  part  in  a  civilization  whose  sin 
cerity  they  had  trusted  as  little  children 
trust  in  the  perfection  of  their  parents. 

Beside  the  army  of  maimed  and  fallen 
boys  was  another  shadowy  army  of  girls  in 
their  teens  and  sweet  early  twenties  —  the 
unclaimed  contemporaries  of  a  buried  genera 
tion. 

There  was  a  fumbling  at  the  door-handle 
and  a  small,  muffled  voice  came  from  the 
corridor :  — 

"I  say,  Len;  I  say,  Marjorie,  can  I 
come  in?"  And  in  he  walked,  spotless  and 
engaging,  in  a  white  sailor  suit  with  baggy 
long  trousers,  his  hair  still  wet  from  being 
tortured  into  corkscrew  curls.  "I'm  all 
dressed  for  the  party,"  he  announced;  "I'm 
not  going  to  bed  at  all  to-night." 

Marjorie    tried    to    draw    him    into    her 

lap,    but    he    eluded    her    with    a    resentful 

wiggle,  and  walking  up  to  Leonard,  whacked 

him  on  the  thigh  and  looked  up  with  a  sly, 

[13] 


FOUR  DAYS 

beseeching  glance  *  which  said,  "Whack  me 
back.  You  play  with  me.  You  notice  me. 
I  love  you." 

His  eyes  were  on  a  level  with  Leonard's 
pistol ;  he  put  his  little  pink  face  close  to  it 
lovingly,  but  drew  back  again,  puckering 
up  his  small  nose. 

"Oh,  Leonard,  you  smell  just  like  a  poor 
man!"  he  exclaimed. 

Leonard  grinned.  "You  never  got  as 
near  as  this  to  any  poor  man  who  is  half  as 
dirty  as  I  am,  old  dear." 

"You've  got  just  half  an  hour  to  dress 
for  dinner,  and  we're  due  in  the  church  at 
eight,"  said  Marjorie. 

She  paused  in  the  doorway,  a  slim  figure 
in  a  crumpled  white  dress. 

Leonard  stared  at  her  blankly,  and  then 
put  out  a  bony  arm  and  drew  her  to  his  side. 

"It's  awfully  tough  on  you,  honey,  to 
have  it  this  way ;  no  new  clothes  or  anything 
fixed  up,  and,"  he  added,  smiling  and  closing 
his  eyes,  "coming  away  across  the  ocean 
full  of  dirty  little  submarines  to  a  bridegroom 
smelling  like  a  poor  man  !  Jove !  I  want  a 
bath!" 

"Just  as  I  was  about  to  take  the  liberty  of 
remarking  myself,"  old  Nannie  said.  She 
[14] 


FOUR  DAYS 

was  standing  in  the  doorway,  her  arms 
akimbo  and  her  sleeves  rolled  up.  "  Captain 
Leeds,  it's  all  ready." 

Leonard's  arms  were  still  about  Marjorie. 
"Captain  Leeds,  otherwise  known  as  Lieu 
tenant  Leeds,"  he  said,  "once  known  as 
Leonard,  presents  his  compliments  to  Mrs. 
Bridget  O'Garrity,  nee  Flannagan,  and  wishes 
her  to  request  Mr.  Jakes,  in  the  culinary 
regions,  to  draw  his  bath  and  lay  out  his 
things  and  generally  make  himself  a  nuisance. 
He  will  not  permit  Mrs.  O'Garrity  to  dress 
him." 

"Oh,  now,  Captain  Leeds  —  well  then, 
Leonard  dearie,  you  bad  boy,"  wailed  the 
old  woman  reproachfully.  "Mr.  Jakes  has 
gone  to  the  war,  as  has  likewise  all  the  men 
in  the  house,  and  a  good  riddance  it  is,  too. 
There  was  a  time  when  you  weren't  too 
grand  to  let  your  poor  old  Nannie  wait  on 
you.  Why,  Miss  Marjorie,  I  remember  the 
time  when  he  couldn't  — " 

"No  reminiscences!"  broke  in  Leonard, 
eyeing  Nannie  suspiciously.  "You  have 
had  so  much  experience  with  men  you  ought 
to  know  how  they  hate  it.  Why,  Marjorie, 
do  you  realize  that  Nannie  has  had  five 
husbands?" 

[15] 


FOUR  DAYS 

"Oh,  Master  Leonard,  indade,  it  is  only 
three!"  cried  Nannie,  horrified. 

"Seven,"  Leonard  insisted;  "it's  a 
compliment.  It  only  shows  how  fascinating 
you  are  with  the  polygamous  sex.  It  was 
seven,  only  two  never  showed  up  after  the 
wedding.  I  was  to  be  the  eighth,  Marjie, 
only  you  came  in  between  us." 

"Master  Leonard,  I  could  smack  you  for 
talking  like  that !  Don't  listen  to  'irn,  Miss 
Marjorie." 

"Cheer  up,  old  Nannie,"  continued  Leon 
ard  ;  "  there's  still  Kitchener.  He's  a  bach 
elor  and  a  woman-hater,  but  then,  he's  never 
met  you,  and  he's  even  a  greater  hero  than 
I  am."  '  ] 

Nannie,  aghast  but  delighted,  advanced 
toward  Leonard,  shaking  her  gray  curls. 
"H'm,  h'm.  Woman-haters,  you  say.  I 
never  met  one,  indade."  Then,  very 
coaxingly,  "Didn't  you  bring  your  old 
Nannie  a  souvenir  from  the  war?" 

"Rather,"  said  Leonard,  indicating  with 
his  chin  the  rent  on  his  shoulder.  "How 
about  this?" 

"How  about  that?"  said  Nannie,  her 
old  eyes  in  their  deep  furrows  gleaming  with 
malice. 

[16] 


FOUR  DAYS 

From  behind  her  broad  back  she  drew 
forth  a  round  metal  object  that  flashed  in 
the  firelight. 

"It's. a  German  helmet!"  cried  Marjorie. 

"I  want  it!"  shouted  Herbert,  stretching 
up  his  arms  for  the  flashing  plaything. 

"It's  mine,"  coaxed  Marjorie,  trying  to 
wrest  it  from  Nannie. 

Leonard  put  out  a  swift  hand,  and  held 
it  aloft  by  the  spike. 

"Let  me  try  it  on,"  wheedled  Marjorie, 
coaxing  down  his  arm. 

"You  look  like  a  baby  Valkyrie,"  said 
Leonard,  placing  the  helmet  on  her  head; 
but  he  frowned. 

Marjorie  regarded  herself  in  the  mirror. 

"  This  belonged  to  an  officer  of  the  Prussian 
guard,"  she  said. 

"  It  did.     How  did  you  know  ?  " 

Marjorie  continued  to  stare  at  herself  in 
the  mirror  as  if  she  saw  something  there 
behind  her  own  reflection.  "The  very  first 
man  who  was  ever  in  love  with  me  wore 
a  helmet  like  this,"  she  said,  suddenly, 
lifting  enigmatic  and  mischievous  eyes  to 
Leonard. 

"How    many    have    there    been    since?" 
Leonard  smiled,  lazily. 
[17] 


FOUR  DAYS 

"I  can  remember  only  the  first  and  the 
last,"  said  Marjorie. 

Leonard  laughed,  but  he  could  not  see 
Marjorie's  face.  She  was  standing  looking 
down  at  the  gold  eagle-crest,  holding  the 
helmet  in  both  hands,  carefully,  timidly,  as 
if  it  were  a  loaded  weapon  that  might  go  off. 

"Where  did  you  get  it,  Len?"  she  asked, 
gravely. 

"There's  a  crop  of  them  coming  up  in 
France  this  summer,"  said  Leonard. 

"But  seriously,  Len?" 

"Seriously,  Marjorie."  He  took  the 
helmet  by  the  spike  and  put  it  on  the  mantel. 
"Lord  knows,  I'm  not  presenting  that  as  a 
token  of  valor  to  any  one.  It  belonged  to  a 
poor  chap  who  died  on  the  field  the  night  I 
was  wounded.  My  orderly  packed  it  in  my 
kit." 

Marjorie  drew  a  deep  breath.  "Oh,  Len," 
she  whispered,  staring  at  the  helmet.  "How 
does  it  feel  to  kill  a  man  ?" 

Leonard,  smiling,  shifted  his  position  and 
answered,  "No  different  from  killing  your 
first  rabbit,  if  you  don't  sit  down  on  the 
bank  and  watch  it  kick,  and  write  poetry. 
Besides,  you  always  have  the  pleasure  of 
thinking  it's  a  German  rabbit." 
[18] 


FOUR  DAYS 

"Oh,Len!" 

"You're  just  one  in  a  great  big  machine 
called  England.  It  isn't  your  job  to  think," 
Leonard  said.  "For  God's  sake,  lamb,  don't 
cherish  any  fool  Yankee  pacifist  notions. 
We  are  going  to  beat  the  Germans  till  every 
man  Fritz  of  them  is  either  dead  or  can't 
crawl  off  the  field."  His  black  fingers  closed 
over  Marjorie's.  "Remember,  after  to-night 
you're  an  Englishwoman.  You  can't  be  a 
little  American  mongrel  any  more ;  not  until 
I'm  dead,  anyway.  Now  I've  got  you,  I'll 
never  let  you  go  ! "  He  showed  his  teeth  in  a 
fierce,  defiant  smile,  in  which  there  was 
pathos.  He  knew  what  a  life  in  the  Dar 
danelles  was  worth.  He  put  his  cropped 
head  close  to  Marjorie's.  "Do  you  hate  me 
for  that,  Marjie  ?  " 

Marjorie,  pressing  against  him,  felt  the 
strength  of  his  gaunt  shoulder  through  his 
coat.  A  sense  of  delicious  fear  stole  over  her, 
and  the  savage  which  lies  close  to  the  surface 
in  every  woman  leaped  within  her. 

"I  love  you  for  it !"  she  cried. 

"Don't  rub  your  head  against  my  coat," 
murmured  Leonard;  "there's  bugs  in  it." 

They  both  laughed  excitedly. 

[19] 


II 

Two  hours  later  the  wedding  took  place  in 
the  church  where  Leonard  had  been  baptized 
and  confirmed.  Little  Herbert  thought  he 
had  never  been  to  such  a  strange  party.  He 
didn't  care  if  he  never  went  to  one  again.  No 
one  was  dressed  up  but  himself.  His  mother 
and  father  and  Marjorie  wore  their  every 
day  clothes,  but  their  faces  were  different. 
He  wouldn't  have  believed  it  was  a  party  at 
all,  except  for  their  faces,  which  wore  an  ex 
pression  he  associated  with  Christmas  and 
birthdays. 

The  church  was  dark,  and  it  seemed  to 
Herbert  so  vast  and  strange  at  this  late  hour. 
Candles  gleamed  on  the  altar,  at  the  end  of 
a  long,  shadowy  aisle.  Their  footsteps  made 
no  sound  on  the  velvet  carpet  as  they  walked 
under  the  dim  arches  to  the  front  seat.  His 
aunts  and  his  uncles  and  his  brother's  big 
friends  from  the  training  camp  seemed 
suddenly  to  appear  out  of  the  shadows  and 
silently  fill  the  front  rows.  In  the  queer  light 
[20] 


FOUR  DAYS 

he  kept  recognizing  familiar  faces  that  smiled 
and  nodded  at  him  in  the  dimness.  Even 
Miss  Shake  and  Nannie  looked  queer  in  the 
pew  behind.  Nannie  was  dressed  in  her 
"  day-off "  clothes.  She  was  crying.  Her 
bert  looked  about  him  wonderingly :  yes, 
Miss  Shake  was  crying,  too  —  and  that  lady 
in  the  black  veil  over  there :  oh,  how  she 
was  crying  !  No ;  he  didn't  like  this  party. 

Through  a  little  space  between  his  father's 
arm  and  a  stone  pillar  he  could  see  Leonard's 
back.  Leonard  was  standing  on  the  white 
stone  steps,  very  straight.  Then  he  kneeled 
down,  and  Herbert  heard  his  sword  click  on 
the  stone  floor.  The  minister,  dressed  in  a 
white  and  purple  robe,  with  one  arm  out 
stretched,  was  talking  to  him  in  a  sing-song 
voice.  Herbert  couldn't  see  Marjorie,  the 
pillar  was  in  the  way;  but  he  felt  that 
she  was  there.  Leonard's  voice  sounded 
frightened  and  muffled,  not  a  bit  like  him 
self,  but  he  heard  Marjorie's  voice  just  as 
plain  as  anything  — 

"Till  death  us  do  part.'/ 

Presently  the  choir  began  to  sing,  and  his 
mother  found  the  place  in  the  hymn-book. 
Herbert  couldn't    read,    but    he   knew    the 
hymn.     Each  verse  ended,  — 
[21] 


FOUR  DAYS 

"Rejoice,  rejoice, 
Rejoice,  give  thanks,  and  sing." 

Herbert  looked  on  the  hymn-book  and 
pretended  he  was  reading.  The  book  trem 
bled.  Leonard  and  Marjorie  were  passing 
close  to  the  pew.  They  looked,  oh,  so 
pleased !  Leonard  smiled  at  his  mother, 
and  she  smiled  back.  She  lifted  Herbert 
up  on  the  seat  and  he  watched  them  pass 
down  the  dark  aisle  together  and  out  through 
the  shadowy  doorway  at  the  very  end.  The 
little  boy  felt  a  vague  sensation  of  distress. 
He  looked  up  at  his  mother  and  the  distress 
grew.  She  was  still  singing,  but  her  mouth 
kept  getting  queerer  and  queerer  as  she 
came  to  the  line,  — 

"  —  give  thanks,  and  sing." 

He  had  never  seen  his  mother  cry  before. 
He  didn't  suppose  she  could  cry.  She  was 
grown  up.  You  don't  expect  grown-up 
people,  like  your  mother,  to  cry  —  except, 
of  course,  Nannie  and  Miss  Shake. 

"  Rejoice,  rejoice, 
Rejoice,  give  thanks,^and  sing." 

He  sang  it  for  her.     The  voices  of  the  choir 
seemed   suddenly  to  have  traveled  a  long 
way  off  and  the  tones  of  the  organ  were 
[22] 


FOUR  DAYS 

hushed.  He  heard  his  own  voice  echoing 
in  the  silent  church.  The  words  seemed  to 
come  out  all  wrong.  He  felt  a  terrible  sense 
of  oppression  in  the  region  of  his  stomach, 
and  he  wondered  if  he  were  going  to  be  ill. 
It  was  a  relief  to  hear  himself  crying  at  the 
top  of  his  lungs,  and  to  have  Nannie  scolding 
him  lovingly,  and  leading  him  out  of  the 
church.  He  drove  home,  sniffing  but  com 
forted,  in  his  father's  lap. 

"He  felt  it,"  old  Nannie  said  to  Burns, 
as  she  lifted  him  out  of  the  carriage.  "The 
child  understood,  bless  him!" 

"  There  wasn't  a  dry  eye  come  out  'f  the 
church,"  said  Burns,  "except  them  two 
selves." 

"I  wonder  where  they've  gone?"  said 
Nannie,  eyeing  Burns  jealously.  "They 
must  have  took  a  train,  I  suppose?" 

"  That's  telling,"  said  the  old  man,  whip 
ping  up  the  horses  that  were  covered  with 
foam. 


[23] 


Ill 

FOUR  days  is  a  long,  long  time,  Marjorie 
had  said,  for  the  hours  that  are  breathlessly 
counted  make  long,  long  days ;  they  are 
long  as  those  of  summer-childhood  in  pass 
ing.  But  ever,  when  it  comes  May,  and  the 
soft,  chill  breezes  blow  from  the  ocean  across 
the  sun-soaked  sands,  and  the  clouds  run  daz 
zling  races  with  the  sea  gulls,  Marjorie  will 
feel  herself  running  too,  catching  up  breath 
less  a  few  paces  behind  Leonard,  as  on  that 
second  afternoon  on  a  wind-swept  beach  of 
the  Kentish  coast.  Like  mad  things,  their 
heads  thrown  back,  hair  flying,  mouths 
open,  the  spray  smiting  their  open  eyes, 
with  all  the  ecstasy  of  their  new-found 
energy,  they  clambered  over  the  slippery 
seaweed  and  leaped  from  rock  to  rock,  swept 
along  with  the  winds,  daring  the  waves, 
shouting  down  the  surf. 

Marjorie,   when   those  spring  days  come 

round   again,   will  remember  a  little  cove, 

sheltered   from   the   wind,    warmed   by   the 

fitful  spring  sunlight,  where,  panting,  they 

[24] 


FOUR  DAYS 

threw  themselves  down  on  the  sand,  bodies 
glowing,  faces  to  the  sun. 

"Hello,  sun!"  cried  Marjorie. 

"Hello,  clouds!"  cried  Leonard. 

"Hello,  old  sea  gulls!"  cried  Marjorie, 
beginning  to  sneeze. 

"God,  but  I  feel  fit;  I  feel  glorious! 
Don't  you,  Marjie?" 

"Don't  I,  though!  I  feel  glorious.  O 
God ! "  cried  Marjorie,  who  did  not  know 
whether  that  was  swearing  or  praying,  and 
did  not  care. 

Leonard  ran  his  hands  through  the  chill, 
warm  sand,  and  watched  a  huge  black  spider 
promenading  with  bustling  importance  up 
his  arm. 

"The  female  spider  eats  the  male  as  soon 
as  he  fertilizes  the  eggs,  but  he  has  to  just 
the  same,"  said  Leonard,  dreamily. 

"Let's  kill  her,"  said  Marjorie. 

"No." 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 

"She's  a  cannibal,"  said  Marjorie. 

"No,  it's  her  instinct,"  said  Leonard. 

He  opened  an  alleyway  for  the  spider  in 
the  sand,  and,  with  his  head  down  close, 
watched  it  hustling  away.  "It's  the  same 
[25] 


FOUR  DAYS 

with  us ;  we  know  we  have  every  chance  of 
being  killed  in  this  war,  and  we  have  to  go, 
and  we're  glad  to.  It's  not  courage  or 
sacrifice;  it's  instinct." 

"You  think  so,  Leonard?" 

"It's  not  nice  to  lie  alongside  of  a  man 
you've  killed  and  watch  him  die,"  said  Leon 
ard,  inconsistently,  eyes  looking  down  into 
the  sand,  head  pillowed  on  his  arm. 

"Did  you  have  to,  Len?" 

"I  didn't  exactly  mean  to  kill  him.  He 
was  wounded,"  murmured  Leonard,  raising 
little  white  pools  in  the  sand  with  his  nostrils. 
"We  had  a  rotten  day  and  had  taken  a  small 
position  which  didn't  amount  to  anything 
when  we  got  it.  Wasn't  I  in  a  nasty  sulk! 
Some  of  my  green  men  had  funked  just  at  the 
crucial  mojnent,  and  I  had  all  but  shot 
one.  The  ground  was  covered  with  wounded. 
Couldn't  tell  theirs  from  ours.  Awful  mess. 
I  was  coming  back  across  the  field  over  dead 
bodies,  and  cursing  every  one  I  stumbled 
across.  I  suppose  I  felt  pretty  sick.  I  saw  a 
helmet  gleaming  in  some  burnt  shrubbery. 
It  was  a  nice  shiny  one,  with  an  eagle  crest. 
It  occurred  to  me  you'd  written  me  to  send 
you  one,  '  because  all  the  girls  had  them '  — 
remember?" 

[26] 


FOUR  DAYS 

Leonard  rolled  over  close  beside  her  and 
his  head  went  down  into  the  sand  again. 

"I  went  to  pick  it  up,  but  it  seems  I  got 
something  else  with  it.  A  great  blonde  fel 
low  in  gray,  all  powdered  with  dust  and 
bleeding,  —  Jove  !  how  he  was  bleeding  !  — 
came  up  with  it.  It  surprised  me  and  he 
managed  to  knife  me,  and  over  I  went,  on 
top  of  him.  I  had  my  pistol  cocked,  and  I 
let  him  have  it  right  in  the  chest.  I  must 
have  fainted,  because  when  I  came  to  I  was 
on  my  back  and  the  moon  was  shining  in 
my  eyes.  The  man  in  gray  was  there  along 
side  of  me,  supporting  himself  on  one  arm 
and  looking  at  me. 

" '  I  am  dying,'  he  said  in  German. 

"  That  didn't  seem  very  interesting  to  me. 
So  is  everybody  else,  I  thought ;  and  I  didn't 
answer.  Presently  he  said  it  again,  in  Eng 
lish  :  '  I'm  dying.' 

"'Really?' said  I. 

"'Yes,'  he  answered. 

"There  was  something  impersonal  in  his 
tone,  and  he  looked  eery  there  in  the  moon 
light,  I  can  tell  you,  leaning  on  one  arm 
and  bleeding.  Awfully  good-looking  chap. 
Built  like  a  giant.  He  reminded  me  of  a 
statue  called  the  Dying  Gaul,  or  something." 
[27] 


FOUR  DAYS 

"Oh,  yes;    I  know  that  statue!" 

"Well,  he  looked  like  that  — with  all 
the  fight  going  out  of  him.  Suddenly  he 
smiled  at  me. 

"'Did  you  think  you  were  playing  your 
football  when  you  came  down  on  top  of  me 
that  way,  eh?' 

"I  say,  I  was  a  bit  surprised.  Football 
doesn't  seem  a  very  congenial  subject  for  a 
dying  man;  but  do  you  know,  we  sat  there 
and  talked  for  an  hour  at  least  about  all 
kinds  of  sports  and  athletics.  You  should 
have  seen  the  way  he  kept  tossing  the  hair 
out  of  his  eyes  and  saying,  'Fine,  fine!' 
And  then  he'd  boast,  and  tell  me  all  about 
the  things  he'd  done.  I  never  saw  a  fellow 
built  as  he  was.  It  seems  that  he  was  a 
champion  in  most  everything.  But  after  a 
while  he  seemed  to  get  on  to  the  fact  that  he 
was  losing  an  awful  lot  of  blood,  and  then 
he  said  again,  '  Schade.'  That  was  all. 
After  two  or  three  foolish  tries  I  got  up  on 
my  feet.  The  last  I  saw  of  him  he  was  sup 
porting  himself  on  his  arm,  looking  for  all 
the  world  like  that  statue.  , 

"They'd  cleared  off  all  the  wounded,  and 
only  the  dead  were  left.  It  was  terribly 
still,  and  I  could  hear  him  choking,  a  long 
[28] 


FOUR  DAYS 

way  off,  as  I  came  back  across  the  lines. 
The  next  day  I  happened  to  stumble  across 
him.  It  was  bright  sunshine,  and  he  was 
like  marble,  and  the  ground  all  about  was 
sticky.  He  was  staring  up  in  the  sun  with 
his  head  thrown  back  and  his  eyes  open,  and 
the  strangest  look !  Well,  anyway,  it  made 
me  think  of  a  chap  I  saw  once  make  a 
rippingly  clever  catch  at  ball,  with  the  sun 
shining  straight  in  his  eyes,  while  the  crowds 
went  wild,  and  he'  didn't  know  what  had 
happened  for  a  "minute.  —  His  helmet  was 
still  there  beside  him,  keeping  guard,  sort  of 
like  a  dog,  and  I  took  it  back  with  me.  I 
don't  know  why." 

Leonard  paused;  then  he  said,  suddenly, 
averting  his  eyes  like  a  child  caught  in  a 
wrong  act,  "That  talk  we  had  was  so  queer 
—  I  mean  it  was  as  if  —  don't  you  know  ?  — 
as  if  we  were  —  well,  sort  of  the  same  at 
heart.  I  mean,  of  course,  if  he  hadn't  been 
German.  War  is  queer,"  he  continued, 
lamely,  raising  his  cropped  head  and  looking 
off  at  the  horizon.  "Awfully  queer,"  he 
murmured,  watching  a  dark  cloud  steal 
across  the  water,  tarnishing  all  its  bright 
surface. 

Presently  he  spoke  again. 
[29] 


FOUR  DAYS 

"So  many  men  have  been  killed  —  English 
men  I  mean;  almost  all  the  men  I  went  to 
school  with."  He  started  to  count  as  if  by 
rote:  "Don  and  Robert,  and  Fred  Sands, 
and  Steve,  and  Philip  and  Sandy."  His 
voice  was  muffled  in  the  sand.  "Benjamin 
Robb  and  Cyril  and  Eustis,  Rupert  and  Ted 
and  Fat  —  good  old  Fat !" 

Lying  close  to  Marjorie  on  the  sand,  his 
mighty  young  body  still  hot  from  the  joyous 
contact  of  the  noonday  sun,  his  eyes,  full 
of  an  uncomplaining  and  uncomprehending 
agony,  sought  hers;  and  Marjorie  looked 
dumbly  back  with  a  feeling  of  desolation 
growing  within  her  as  vast  and  dreary  as 
the  gray  expanse  lapping  beside  them,  for  it 
seemed  to  her  that  Leonard  was  groping, 
pleading  —  oh,  so  silently  —  for  an  explana 
tion,  an  inspiration  deeper  than  anything  he 
had  known  before  —  a  something  immense 
that  would  make  it  all  right,  this  gigantic 
twentieth-century  work  of  killing;  square 
it  with  the  ideals  and  ideas  that  this  most 
enlightened  century  had  given  him. 

Marjorie  strangled  a  fierce  tide  of  feeling 

that  welled  up  within  her,  and  her  eyes,  bent 

on  Leonard,  were  fierce  because  she  loved 

him  most  and  she  had  nothing,  nothing  to 

[30] 


FOUR  DAYS 

give  him."  For  he  had  to  go  back,  oh,  he 
had  to  go  back  to-morrow,  and  he  hated  it 
so  —  they  all  hated  it  —  the  best  of  them ! 
How  clearly  she  saw  through  the  superb* 
pitiful  bluff,  that  it  was  all  sport,  "won 
derful"!  Wonderful?  She  knew,  but  she 
would  never  dare  let  Leonard  see  that  she 
knew. 

And  still  Leonard  counted,  his  head  in 
his  arms :  "Arnold  and  Allen,  and  Roth  wood, 
and  Jim  Douglas,  and  Jack  and  —  Oh, 
Christ !  I  can't  count  them  all ! "  His  voice 
trailed  away  and  was  lost  in  the  sand,  and 
the  big  clouds,  spreading  out  faster  and 
faster,  swept  over  them. 


[31] 


IV 

THEY  came  up  to  London  in  a  first-class 
compartment.  Any  one  could  have  told 
they  were  on  their  honeymoon,  for  they  wore 
perfectly  new  clothes,  and  on  their  knees 
between  them  they  balanced  a  perfectly  new 
tea-basket.  They  were  making  tea  and 
sandwiches,  and  although  it  was  all  rather 
messy,  it  gave  them  the  illusion  of  house 
keeping.  The  lumbering  local  seemed  to 
them  to  be  racing,  and  the  country  sped  by 
and  vanished  as  quickly  as  the  fleeting  mo 
ments,  for  it  was  the  afternoon  of  the  fourth 
day.  An  old  lady  and  gentleman,  their  only 
traveling  companions,  went  tactfully  to  sleep. 
Leonard  glanced  warily  at  them,  and  turned 
his  back  on  the  flying  landscape. 

"Marjorie,"  he  said,  carefully  peeling  a 
hard-boiled  egg;  "Marjie." 

"Yes,  Len." 

"Were  you  ever  in  love  before  this?" 

Marjorie  laughed.  She  was  in  the  mood 
for  laughter.  She  must  be  happy  and  light- 
hearted.  Time  enough  later  on  to  be  serious. 
[32] 


FOUR  DAYS 

"Sure,"  she  replied  gravely,  mocking  eyes 
on  Leonard.  "Weren't  you?" 

Leonard  shook  his  head.  "Just  with 
actresses  and  things,  when  I  was  a  kid. 
Never,  really." 

"I  suppose,"  said  Marjorie,  pensively, 
"I  ought  to  care  if  you've  been  bad  or  not, 
but  I  don't." 

"But  Marjie,  darling,"  —  Leonard  brought 
her  back  and  went  straight  to  his  point,  — 
"were  you  ever  really  in  love  with  that 
German  chap  you  spoke  of  when  I  gave  you 
the  helmet?" 

"He  was  my  first  love,"  said  Marjorie, 
with  wicked  demur eness.  "I  was  fifteen 
and  he  was  eighteen." 

"You  were  just  a  flapper,"  said  Leonard; 
"you  couldn't  be  in  love." 

"A  woman  is  never  too  young  to  adore 
some  man,"  said  Marjorie,  sagely.  "I  was 
a  miserable  homesick  wretch,  spending  the 
winter  in  a  German  boarding-school." 

"A  German  school !     What  for ? " 

Marjorie,  her  small  face  drawn  with 
fatigue,  but  her  eyes  vivid  with  excitement, 
regarded  him  pertly. 

"In  order  to  learn  German  —  and  culture." 

Leonard  gave  a  grunt. 
[33] 


FOUR  DAYS 

"Yes,  Len,  dear,  it  was  dreadful.  You 
never  could  have  stood  it,  you're  so  partic 
ular,"  Marjorie  said,  settling  her  head 
against  Leonard's  arm.  "The  girls  only 
bathed  once  a  year !" 

"  Dirty  beasts  ! "  muttered  Leonard.  "  But 
what's  that  got  to  do  with  the  point?" 

"I'm  preparing  you  for  that  by  degrees. 
Len,  dear,  it  was  dreadful.  No  one  spoke  a 
word  of  English,  and  I  couldn't  speak  a 
word  of  German,  and  it  was  such  a  long 
winter,  and  all  the  flowers  and  grass  were 
dead  in  the  garden,  and  at  night  a  huge  wal 
nut  tree  used  to  rattle  against  my  window 
and  scare  me;  and  they  don't  open  their 
windows  at  night,  and  I  nearly  died  of  suf 
focation  !  They  think  in  Germany  that  the 
night  air  is  poisonous." 

"They  don't  use  it  instead  of  gas.  How 
about  the  man  ?  Hurry  up  ! " 

He  looked  at  his  watch,  but  Marjorie 
chose  to  ignore  him. 

"We've  got  eleven  hours,"  she  said,  with 
tragic  contentment;  "I'm  coming  to  the 
man.  The  girls  used  to  sit  about  indoors 
and  embroider  —  oh,  everlastingly !  Hid 
eous  things.  I  was,  oh,  so  restless !  You 
know  how  you  are  at  that  age." 
[34] 


FOUR  DAYS 

"I  was  playing  football,"  said  Leonard; 
"so  ought  the  man  to  have  been,  instead  of 
casting  sheep's  eyes  at  you." 

"He  had  nice  eyes,"  said  Marjorie,  pen 
sively,  "and  lived  next  door,  and,"  she  added, 
as  Leonard  puffed  stolidly  at  his  pipe,  "he 
was  terribly  good-looking." 

"He  was?"  said  Leonard,  raising  his  eye 
brows. 

"So  tall  for  his  age,  and  his  head  always 
looked  as  if  he  were  racing  against  the  wind. 
He  was  always  rumpling  his  hair  as  if  in  a 
sort  of  frenzy  of  energy,  and  he  was  awkward 
and  graceful  at  the  same  time,  like  a  big 
puppy  who  is  going  to  be  awfully  strong.  He 
was  like  a  big,  very  young  dog.  So  energetic, 
it  was  almost  as  if  he  were  hungry." 

"He's  hungry  along  with  the  rest  of  'em 
now,  I  hope,"  murmured  Leonard. 

"His  name  was  Carl  von  Ehnheim.  He 
lived  in  a  very  grand  house  next  door," 
continued  Marjorie,  "and  he  used  to  come 
over  and  make  formal  calls  on  the  pension 
Miiller.  He  never  looked  at  me,  and  when 
ever  I  spoke  he  looked  down  or  out  of  the 
window,  and  that's  how  I  knew  he  liked  me." 

"Most  abominable  case  of  puppy  love," 
said  Leonard. 

[35] 


FOUR  DAYS 

"Oh,  it  was  50  puppy!"  cried  Marjorie; 
"but  of  course  it  made  the  winter  pass  less 
drearily." 

"How  so  —  'of  course'?" 

"Because  he  would  always  happen  to  come 
down  his  steps  when  I  came  down  mine. 
Or  when  I  was  in  the  garden  walking  on  the 
frozen  walk  with  huge  German  overshoes  on, 
he  would  draw  aside  the  curtain  of  his  house 
and  stand  there  pretending  not  to  see  me 
until  I  bowed,  and  then  he  would  smile 
and  pretend  he  had  just  noticed  me.  And 
then,  when  Christmas  came,  all  the  girls 
went  home,  and  Frau  Miiller  and  I  were 
asked  over  to  his  house  to  spend  the  day. 
Did  you  ever  spend  a  Christmas  in  Germany, 
Len,  dear?" 

"No,  but  I  hope  to  some  day." 

"It's  so  nice,  it's  like  Christmas  in  a  book. 
He  used  to  come  into  the  garden  after  that, 
and  we'd  play  together.  And  we  read  Ger 
man  lesson-books  in  the  summer-house.  And 
then,  sometimes,  for  no  reason  at  all,  we 
would  run  around  the  summer-house  until  we 
were  all  out  of  breath,  and  had  messed 
up  all  the  paths.  One  day  he  had  to  go 
away.  It  was  time  for  him  to  go  into  the 
army  to  be  made  an  officer,  and  I  didn't  see 
[36] 


FOUR  DAYS 

him  for  so  long,  and  I  forgot  all  about  him, 
nearly.  I  would  have  if  I  hadn't  been  so 
lonely." 

"Humph!"  said  Leonard;  and  Marjorie 
squeezed  his  fingers. 

"Aren't  you  just  a  little  bit  jealous?" 
she  pleaded. 

"Jealous  of  a  Hun?"  answered  Leonard, 
knocking  the  ashes  from  his  pipe.  "No." 
But  he  squeezed  her  hand  somewhat  viciously 
in  return.  "Not  a  bit.  Stop  wriggling !  Not 
a  bit.  When  did  you  see  him  again  ?" 

"Not  for  a  long  time.  One  day  I  came 
home  and  on  the  hall  table  was  a  gold  sword 
and  a  gold  helmet  with  an  eagle  crest. 
Maybe  I  heard  his  voice  in  the  parlor, 
maybe  I  didn't.  Anyway,  I  put  the  helmet 
on  my  head  and  took  the  sword  out  of  the 
scabbard.  Oh,  wasn't  it  shiny!  I  was  ad 
miring  myself  in  the  mirror  when  he  came 
out.  —  Stop  whistling,  Leonard,  or  I  won't 
go  on. 

"He  was  dressed  all  in  blue  and  gold,  and 
he  wore  a  gray  cape  lined  with  red,  and  oh, 
he  looked  like  a  picture  in  a  fairy  book,  I  can 
tell  you,  and  he  just  stood  there  and  stared 
at  me.  And  he  said,  in  a  very  low  voice, 
*I  didn't  dare  to  kiss  you  under  the  mistle- 
[37] 


FOUR  DAYS 

toe.'  And  I  wanted  to  say  something,  but 
couldn't  think  of  anything  because  he  wouldn't 
take  his  eyes  away;  and  then  Frau  Miiller 
came  out  and  said  'Good-bye'  to  him  with 
great  formality.  And  afterward  she  said 
it  was  very  unziemlich  to  talk  to  a  young 
officer  alone  in  the  hall,  and,  oh,  I  don't 
know  —  a  whole  lot  of  things  I  didn't  listen 
to." 

"And  of  course  that  only  fanned  your 
ardor  and  you  continued  to  meet  ?  "  prompted 
Leonard. 

He  lighted  a  pipe  and  stuck  it  in  the  corner 
of  his  mouth,  and  never  took  his  smiling  eyes 
off  Marjorie's  thin  little  face,  all  animated 
in  the  dusk. 

"Of  course  we  met,  but  only  on  the 
avenue,  when  we  girls  were  walking  in  a 
long  line,  dressed  alike,  two  by  two,  guarded 
by  dragons  of  teachers.  But  I'd  lie  awake 
every  night  and  think  of  all  kinds  of  things 
—  his  look,  and  the  way  his  sword  clanked 
against  his  boots.  And  twice  I  saw  him  at 
the  opera,  looking  at  me  from  one  of  the 
boxes  filled  with  officers.  You  can't  think 
how  big  I  felt  having  him  notice  me  —  and 
you  can't  think  how  beautiful  I  thought  he 
was.  Little  thrills  ran  up  and  down  my 
F381 


FOUR  DAYS 

spine  every  time  I  looked  at  him.  Is  that 
the  way  you  felt  when  you  looked  at  your 
silly  actresses?" 

"Maybe,"  said  Leonard,  grinning  with 
the  corner  of  his  mouth  unoccupied  by  the 
pipe,  and  staring  out  into  the  shadowy 
darkness.  "  Was  that  all  ?  " 

They  were  drawing  near  to  London. 

"Mostly,"  answered  Marjorie,  fingering 
the  buttons  on  Leonard's  sleeve.  "Last 
time  I  saw  him  it  was  in  the  garden  on  the 
same  bench  in  the  sun.  He  came  over  the 
fence,  and  he  told  me  that  his  regiment  had 
been  ordered  to  Berlin  the  next  day." 

"You  knew  more  German  then?"  asked 
Leonard. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so;  but  I  didn't  need 
to  understand.  It  was  all  in  the  sun,  and 
the  air  was  all  warm  from  the  cut  clovers, 
and  his  eyes  were,  oh,  so  blue !  And  —  I 
don't  know.  He  took  off  his  helmet  and 
put  it  on  my  head,  and  he  took  his  sword  out 
of  the  scabbard  and  he  put  it  in  my  hand, 
and  he  said,  oh,  all  kinds  of  things  in  German 
that  I  couldn't  understand  very  well." 

"He  was  probably  asking  you  how  much 
your  dowry  was." 

"Maybe,  but  his  eyes  didn't  ask  me  that. 
[39] 


FOUR  DAYS 

And  that  was  all.  I  never  saw  him  again, 
and  I  don't  ever  expect  to." 

"Should  rather  think  not." 

"Would  you  mind?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Leonard. 

"They're  horrible  tyrants,  English  hus 
bands,"  said  Marjie,  kissing  his  arm. 

"Not  so  bad  as  German  ones,"  he  replied, 
putting  his  head  down  to  hers. 

The  casements  rattled.  Into  the  little 
dark  square  of  the  compartment  window 
peered  a  confusion  of  lights,  the  myriad  eyes 
of  a  great  city. 

"Why,  it's  London!"  cried  Marjorie. 
"I'd  lost  all  track  of  time.  Hadn't  you, 
Leonard  ? " 

"No,"  he  answered  laconically,  slamming 
down  the  lid  of  the  tea-basket. 

But  Marjorie  squeezed  up  against  him  and 
gave  a  little  laugh.  "Supposing  it  could  be 
the  same  man,  Leonard,"  she  said. 

"What  man?"  asked  Leonard,  snapping 
the  lock. 

"Why,  the  man  of  the  Helmet  —  the 
Dying  Gaul  —  and  my  man  I've  been  telling 
you  about." 

Leonard  looked  at  her,  and  for  some  reason 
his  eyes  flinched.  "What  difference  would 
[401 


FOUR  DAYS 

that  make?  He  was  German,"  was  all  he 
said. 

It  was  a  sultry  evening.  Flowers  were 
being  sold  in  profusion  on  street  corners. 
Hurdy-gurdies  played  war  tunes  in  the  gutter. 
The  streets  were  filled  with  soldiers  in  khaki 
and  florid  civilians  in  their  summer  clothes. 
Suddenly  she  remembered  a  passage  in  the 
Bible  that  always  seemed  beautiful  to  her, 
but  now  it  seemed  to  have  been  specially 
written  for  her :  — 

"Where  thou  goest,  I  will  go,  And  where 
thou  lodgest,  I  will  lodge.  Thy  people 
shall  be  my  people,  And  thy  God,  my  God." 

She  walked  as  close  to  Leonard  as  she 
dared:  "Thy  people  shall  be  my  people, 
And  thy  God,  my  God." 

The  passers-by  smiled  at  her  and  turned 
and  stared  after.  "Awfully  hard  on  a  girl," 
they  thought,  touched  by  the  rapt  look  on 
the  young  face. 

"Oh,  Len,"  she  whispered,  pulling  at  his 
arm,  "I  love  all  these  people;  I  love  Eng 
land." 

He  smiled  indulgently. 

"They're  all  right,"  he  assented;  "I 
don't  mind  strangers,  but  I  hate  the  thought 
of  all  the  relatives  we've  got  to  face  when  we 
[411 


FOUR  DAYS 

get  back.  There'll  be  Aunt  Hortense  and 
Uncle  Charles.  Mater '11  have  all  the  uncles 
and  the  cousins  and  the  aunts  in  to  bid  me  a 
tender  farewell.  Think  of  spending  my  last 
evening  with  you  answering  questions  about 
how  deep  the  mud  is  in  the  trenches,  and  what 
we  get  to  eat,  and  what  the  names  of  all  the 
officers  in  my  mess  are." 
i  "And  then  they'll  spend  the  rest  of  our 
precious  time  connecting  them  up  to  people 
of  the  same  name  in  England,"  said  Marjorie. 

"Exactly,"  agreed  Leonard.  "Aren't 
grown-up  relations  beastly  ?  " 

"Horrible,"  said  Marjorie,  "but  they've 
been  awfully  decent  about  letting  me  have 
you  all  of  these  four  days." 

To  put  off  the  evil  moment  of  arrival  they 
stopped  at  every  shop-window  and  stared  in, 
their  faces  pressed  close  to  the  glass. 

All  the  way  home,  with  eyes  that  neither 
saw  nor  cared  where  they  were  going,  they 
talked  to  each  other  of  their  childhood. 
The  most  trivial  incidents  became]  magnified 
and  significant  when  exchanged. 

"  That's  just  the  way  I  used  to  feel,  that's 
just  the  way  I  used  to  feel,"  they  kept  re 
peating,  over  and   over   again.     The  sweet, 
misty  memories  of  their  happy,  happy  lives, 
[42] 


FOUR  DAYS 

came  gliding  back  into  consciousness.  The 
thoughts  and  yearnings,  the  smells,  the 
sights  and  sounds,  all  the  serenity  of  the  im 
maculate,  long  childhood  days.  Walking  side 
by  side  in  the  reverent  dimness,  intensely 
conscious  of  each  other,  they  had  that  mys 
terious  sensation  of  having  done  this  before, 
of  living  a  second  time.  The  world  was 
transfigured;  they  were  aware  of  measure 
less  rapture  brooding  close  about  them  in 
the  twilight  of  which  they  were  a  part  —  a 
rapture,  a  sense  of  enchantment,  that  people 
are  only  conscious  of  as  children  or  when 
they  are  in  love  or  in  dreams. 

Finally,  deliciously  weary,  and  full  of  the 
languor  of  the  summer  night,  they  retraced 
their  steps  and  took  the  two-penny  tube. 

They  arrived  home  late.  The  family  were 
at  dinner. 

"We've  missed  two  courses,"  said  Leonard 
gleefully;  "the  aunts  must  be  raging." 

"Shall  I  dress  up  ?"  said  Marjorie. 

"Good  God!"  answered  Leonard,  "I  go 
to-morrow  at  five.  Don't  wear  anything 
that  will  make  them  think  we're  going  to 
sit  round  and  converse  with  Aunt  Hortense 
all' the  evening.  I'm  going  up  to  say  good 
bye  to  the  boy." 

[431 


FOUR  DAYS 

Marjorie  found  him  there,  stretched  out 
on  Herbert's  little  cot,  completely  covering 
the  little  mound  under  the  pink  coverlet. 

"Don't  you  come  near,  Marjorie;  I've 
got  Leonard  all  to  myself,"  cried  Herbert, 
who,  like  all  the  others,  was  jealous  of 
Marjorie,  but  did  not  scruple  to  show  it. 

"Ha-ha !  Who's  jealous  now  ?  "  said  Leon 
ard,  putting  his  head  down  on  Herbert's. 
Marjorie  lay  down  on  the  quilt  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed.  Her  restless  eyes  watched  a  light 
from  the  driveway  scurry  across  the  bed  and 
zig-zag  over  the  faces  of  the  two  brothers. 
Like  a  sudden  flame  struck  from  a  match  it 
lit  a  metal  object  on  the  shelf  over  the  bed. 
Ah,  it  looked  grim  and  incongruous  in  that 
peaceful  English  nursery !  Once  it  had  been 
one  among  a  golden  sea  of  helmets,  sweeping 
across  a  great  plain  like  a  river.  The  sun 
smote  upon  gleaming  bayonets,  passing  with 
the  eternal  regularity  of  waves.  Last  au 
tumn  the  world  had  shaken  under  the  tread 
of  the  feet  marching  toward  Paris. 

The  light  clung  to  the  glittering  object, 
and  then  scudded  away.  Marjorie's  eyes 
kept  closing.  Suddenly,  and  oh,  so  vividly, 
there  came  the  memory  of  another  garden ; 
the  cold,  brooding  stillness  of  the  winter  air, 
[44] 


FOUR  DAYS 

and  the  sun  sifting  through  the  diamond 
windows  of  the  summer-house,  and  shining  on 
the  dancing  letters  of  the  lesson-book  and  on 
his  yellow  hair.  Then  she  heard  Leonard's 
laughter  and  was  back  again  in  the  present. 
How  could  he  laugh  like  that!  It  was 
because  he  was  so  young.  They  were  all  so 
young! 

"Good  night,  old  man,"  said  Leonard, 
pulling  himself  up  from  Herbert's  bed; 
"don't  forget  me." 

Three  times  Herbert  called  him  back, 
and  when  Leonard  returned  and  stood  beside 
him,  the  little  boy  wriggled  apologetically. 

"Play  with  me,"  he  said,  plaintively. 

"Play  with  you!  I'll  stand  you  on  your 
head  instead,"  said  Leonard,  and  put  his 
arm  around  Marjorie. 

But  Herbert  continued  to  call  to  the 
emptiness. 

Leonard  and  Marjorie  paused  on  the  land 
ing,  and  he  reached  up  and  spread  his  hand 
over  the  face  of  the  clock. 

"Stop  moving!"  he  said. 

"You're  just  about  three  years  old  to 
night,"  said  Marjorie. 

"I  know  —  I  know,"  he  said.  Suddenly, 
with  an  impulse  and  gesture  of  childlike  and 
[45] 


FOUR  DAYS 

terrible  longing,  he  put  both  his  arms  about 
Marjorie.  His  face  wore  an  expression  that 
she  could  never  forget.  Looking  up  at  him 
with  wide,  tearless  eyes,  she  felt  in  that  one 
uncontrolled  moment  that  she  knew  him 
better  than  she  ever  would  again.  She  felt 
wonderfully  old,  immeasurably  older  than 
Leonard,  older  than  the  whole  world.  With 
a  love  almost  impersonal  in  its  unconscious 
motherliness,  she  yearned  with  the  mighty 
power  of  her  woman's  body  and  soul  to 
protect  this  immature  and  inarticulate  being 
who  was  faring  forth  to  the  peninsula  of  the 
"  Dead  English  "^to  make  his  silent  sacrifice. 
The  great  house  seemed  to  be  listening, 
hushed,  to  the  sober  ticking  of  the  clock  on 
the  landing.  Suddenly,  with  a  preliminary 
shudder,  its  melodious  voice  rang  out  nine 
times.  The  two  stole  downstairs  to  the 
dining-room. 

"Nine  o'clock.  We've  missed  three 
courses,"  whispered  Leonard  to  Marjorie. 

All  through  dinner  he  sulked.  He  could 
not  forgive  his  Aunt  Hortense  for  her  very 
considerable  bulk,  which  was  situated  be 
tween  him  and  Marjorie.  He  squeezed  his 
mother's  hand  under  the  table,  till  her  rings 
cut  into  her  flesh,  and  she  had  to  smile ;  but 
[46] 


FOUR  DAYS 

toward  all  the  flattering  advances  of  his 
aunt,  and  her  effort  to  ascertain  his  opinion 
on  every  aspect  of  the  war,  he  remained 
dumb  with  the  maddening,  imperturbability 
of  a  sulky  boy,  who  refuses  to  be  "pumped." 

After  dinner  he  was  claimed  by  his  father 
and  remained  in  the  smoking-room,  detained 
by  a  certain  wistfulness  in  his  father's  manner. 

"We've  missed  you  these  four  days,  old 
boy,"  his  father  said.  "But  I  hardly  expect 
you  missed  us.  Can't  we  have  a  talk  now  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir;  of  course,"  Leonard  answered. 
He  felt  suddenly  contrite.  He  noticed  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life  that  his  father  looked 
old  and  little,  almost  wizened,  and  there  was 
something  deferential  in  his  manner  toward 
his  big  son  that  smote  Leonard.  It  was  as 
if  he  were  saying,  apologetically,  "You're 
the  bone  and  sinew  of  this  country  now. 
I  admire  you  inordinately,  my  son.  See, 
I  defer  to  you;  but  do  not  treat  me  too 
much  like  a  back  number."  It  was  apparent 
even  in  the  way  he  handed  Leonard  the  cigars. 

Desperately  conscious  of  the  hands  on  the 
clock's  face,  which  kept  moving  forward, 
Leonard  sat  and  conversed  on  the  recent 
drive  in  France,  the  Dardanelles  campaign, 
home  politics,  held  simply  by  the  pathos  of 
[47] 


FOUR  DAYS 

his  father's  new  manner.  At  every  pause  in 
the  conversation  he  listened  for  Marjorie's 
voice  in  the  drawing-room. 

And  Marjorie,  in  the  drawing-room,  was 
wondering  desperately  if  he  knew  how  the 
time  was  flying  as  he  sat  there  quietly  smok 
ing  and  holding  forth  endlessly  about  trans 
ports  and  supplies  and  appropriations,  and 
all  the  things  which  meant  nothing  to  her. 
More  wily  than  Leonard,  she  had  escaped 
from  Aunt  Hortense,  who,  in  true  English 
fashion,  had  not  appeared  to  be  aware  of 
her  presence  until  well  on  toward  the  middle 
of  the  evening,  after  the  men  had  left ;  then 
she  turned  to  Marjorie  suddenly,  raising  her 
lorgnette. 

"Leonard's  letters  must  have  been  very 
interesting  to  your  friends  in  America." 

"Oh,  yes,"  stammered  Marjorie;  "but 
he  never  said  very  much  about  the  war." 
She  blushed. 

"Ah,"  said  the  older  woman ;  "I  observed 
he  was  very  silent  on  the  subject.  It's  a 
code  or  custom  among  his  set  in  the  army, 
you  may  be  sure  of  that.  So  many  young 
officers'  letters  have  been  published,"  she 
continued,  turning  to  Mrs.  Leeds.  "Lady 
Alice  Fryzel  was  telling  me  the  other  day 
[481 


FOUR  DAYS 

that  she  was  putting  all  her  son's  letters  into 
book  form." 

Marjorie  had  an  inward  vision  of  Leonard's 
letters  published  in  book  form!  She  knew 
them  by  heart,  written  from  the  trenches  in 
pencil  on  lined  paper  —  "servant  paper," 
Leonard  called  it.  They  came  in  open 
envelopes  unstamped,  except  with  the  grim 
password  "war  zone."  Long,  tired  letters; 
short,  tired  letters,  corrected  by  the  censor's 
red  ink,  and  full  of  only  ''our  own  business," 
as  Leonard  said.  Sometimes  at  the  end 
there  would  be  a  postscript  hastily  inserted : 
"I  was  in  my  first  real  battle  to-day.  Can't 
say  I  enjoyed  it."  Or,  "Ronald  Lambert, 
who  was  my  chum  at  Eton,  never  turned  up 
to-night.  I  feel  pretty  sick  about  it."  She 
remembered  the  postscript  of  his  first  letter 
from  the  front ;  not  a  word  about  the  thun 
der  of  the  distant  cannonading  or  the  long 
line  of  returning  ambulances  that  greeted 
the  incoming  soldier.  It  gave  the  first 
realistic  smack  of  the  filthy  business  of  war. 
"I've  had  my  head  shaved,"  Leonard  wrote. 
"P.P.S.  Caught  One."  Marjorie  wondered 
how  that  would  look  to  Aunt  Horfense, 
published  in  book  form. 

"Aren't  the  men  a  long  while?"  said  Mrs. 
[491 


FOUR  DAYS 

Leeds,  for  the  fifth  time;  and  Marjorie 
could  endure  it  no  longer.  She  could  not 
bear  to  sit  there  and  look  at  Mrs.  Leeds's 
face.  The  fierce  resignation  of  the  mother's 
eyes  seemed  dumbly  to  accuse  Marjorie, 
whose  whole  youth  and  passionate  being 
protested:  "I  won't  let  her  have  Leonard 
this  evening  —  I  won't  —  I  can't  —  it's  his 
last!  Why  don't  old  people,  like  Aunt 
Hortense,  fight  wars,  if  they're  so  crazy 
about  it?" 

She  crept  unnoticed  to  the  dark  alcove, 
and  slipped  through  the  curtains  of  the 
French  window.  But  the  older  woman's 
shrewd  glance  followed  her;  and  all  the 
while  she  was  listening  with  apparent  com 
posure  and  concern  to  Hortense,  she  was 
saying  to  herself,  with  bitter  impatience,  — 

"Fool!  Why  did  she  have  to  come  this 
evening!"  And  then,  "O  Leonard,  is  it 
possible  that  little  young  thing  can  love  you 
as  I  do ! "  And,  "  O  Leonard  —  O  Leonard ! " 

Marjorie,  in  the  garden,  skirted  the  shrubs 
and  stole  between  the  flower-beds  to  the 
library  window.  Vividly  she  could  see  Leon 
ard,  stretched  out  in  a  chair,  his  cigarette 
in  one  hand,  gesticulating,  talking. 

"He's  happy;  he's  forgotten  all  about 
[501 


FOUR  DAYS 

me,"  she  thought;  and  swept  by  an  absurd 
emotion  of  self-pity,  she  kissed  her  own  arms 
in  the  darkness  to  comfort  herself,  till  her 
eyes,  which  never  left  his  face,  saw  him  turn 
warily  and  desperately  to  the  clock. 

"Leonard,"  she  whispered,  pressing  close 
to  the  glass. 

Suddenly  he  saw  her  revealed  in  the 
pale  halo  of  light  cast  by  the  window  into 
the  darkness.  He  looked  at  her  for  moments 
without  moving.  Then  she  saw  him  get  up 
and  say  good  night  to  his  father,  putting  his 
hand  awkwardly  and  self-consciously  on  his 
sleeve.  Minutes  passed,  and  she  knew  he 
had  gone  to  say  good  night  to  his  mother, 
and  then  she  saw  the  light  of  his  cigarette 
coming  toward  her  across  the  lawn.  She 
waited  without  moving  for  him  to  touch  her. 
So  many  times  she  would  feel  him  coming 
toward  her  in  the  moonlight,  the  outline  of 
his  dear  form  lost  in  the  dusk,  and  when  he 
put  out  his  hand  it  would  be  only  empty 
shadows. 

"Marjorie,  where  are  you?" 

"Here,  Len." 

Some  one  came  to  the  front  door  and 
called  out,  — 

"Are  you  there,  Leonard  and  Marjorie? 
[511 


FOUR  DAYS 

Lock   the   door   when  you   come  in,  Leon 
ard." 

From  the,  darkness  they  saw  his  mother's 
form  silhouetted  against  the  light  inside. 
She  started  as  if  to  come  toward  them,  and 
then  suddenly  shut  the  door  and  left  them 
alone  together  in  the  white  night. 


[52] 


A  THICK  yellow  fog  lay  over  London ;  at 
five  o'clock  in  the  Victoria  Station  the 
dawn  had  not  penetrated,  and  the  great  globes 
of  electricity  in  the  murky  ceiling  shed  an 
uncertain  light.  Through  the  usual  somber 
and  preoccupied  din  of  the  early  morning 
traffic,  came  the  steady,  rhythmic  tread  of 
marching  feet.  Lost  in  the  smoke  and  fog, 
a  band  was  playing  "Rule  Britannia." 

Marjorie  and  Leonard  were  standing  in  the 
very  centre  of  the  vast  dingy  shed.  Heavy- 
eyed,  they  looked  about  them  with  an  un 
seeing,  bewildered  gaze,  that  kept  reverting 
to  each  other.  Marjorie  had  both  her  hands 
about  one  of  Leonard's,  and  was  holding  it 
convulsively  in  the  pocket  of  his  great-coat. 
Many  times  she  had  pictured  this  last  scene 
to  herself,  anticipating  every  detail.  Even 
in  these  nightmares,  she  had  always  seen 
herself,  with  a  sick  heart,  bearing  up  bravely 
for  Leonard's  sake,  making  it  easier  for  him. 

A  hunchback,  dodging  under  the  elbows 
of  the  crowd,  stared  at  her,  and  smiled 

[53] 


FOUR  DAYS 

queerly  and  whispered  to  himself.  Marjie 
shivered,  then  forgot  him  as  a  spasmodic 
gasp  ran  through  the  crowd;  a  sound 
suddenly  seemed  to  envelop  her  like  a  wave, 
breaking,  gathering  itself,  then  breaking 
again  —  just  two  words  :  —  "  Good-bye  — 
Good-bye  —  Good-bye." 

She  looked  into  Leonard's  face,  and  saw 
that  the  moment  had  arrived ;  he  was  going. 
She  was  gripped  with  a  sense  of  suffocation 
and  panic.  It  was  the  same  feeling  that  she 
had  experienced  as  a  child  when  she  had  gone 
in  wading  and  had  slipped  into  the  water 
over  her  head.  She  clung  to  Leonard  now 
just  as  she  had  clung  to  her  rescuer  then. 

"Don't  go!  Don't  go!  I  can't  bear  it! 
O  Leonard!" 

His  hand,  disengaging  itself  from  her 
fingers,  increased  her  panic.  He  put  his 
arm  about  her. 

"Marjie,"  he  said,  in  a  steady  voice, 
which  yet  sounded  unreal,  not  like  his  own, 
"I'm  going.  Good-bye.  I  love  you  with 
my  whole  soul;  I  always  will.  I  shan't  be 
able  to  hear  from  you,  but  I'll  write  you  as 
often  as  I  can.  Don't  worry  if  there  are 
long  intervals  between  letters.  And,  Marjie, 
don't  believe  too  easily  that  I'm  dead.  If 
[54] 


FOUR  DAYS 

you  hear  I'm  missing,  there  is  still  a  good 
chance;  even  if  I'm  on  the  lists,  keep  on 
hoping.  I'm  coming  back.  Good-bye." 
He  kissed  her,  then  paused,  and  put  his 
dark  head  close  to  hers.  "Marjie,  if  we 
should  have  one,  —  if  it's  a  boy,  —  I  want 
it  brought  up  in  England;  and  in  case  we 
should  —  promise  me  to  take  the  best  care 
of  yourself  —  promise !  That's  right.  Now 
stop  trembling." 

Marjorie  nodded,  with  white  lips,  but 
continued  to  tremble.  Leonard's  face  be 
came  equally  white.  He  set  his  quivering 
mouth  and  turned  away,  but  Marjorie 
clutched  wildly  at  his  sleeve. 

"I'm  coming  with  you  as  far  as  the  boat, 
Leonard,  just  as  far  as  the  boat.  See, 
those  women  are  going.  Oh,  let  me,  Leon 
ard!" 

He  hesitated,  and  in  that  empty  moment 
a  voice  behind  them  said,  "The  average  life 
of  an  officer  in  the  Dardanelles  is  eleven 
days." 

Leonard  frowned;  then  glared  at  the 
hunchback,  who  was  still  peering  at  them. 

"O  Leonard,  please,  please!'9 

"You  couldn't  come  back  with  them," 
he  said  painfully,  averting  his  eyes  from  hers. 
[551 


FOUR  DAYS 

"Eleven  days!"  repeated  an  incredulous 
voice. 

"I  will  come  —  I  will  come!"  gasped 
Marjorie,  trying  to  squeeze  past  Leonard 
through  the  gates. 

He  pushed  her  back  peremptorily.  His 
boyish  face  was  pitiful  in  its  determination. 

"You  go  back,"  he  said.  He  beckoned  to 
a  young  officer  who  was  standing  in  the  crowd. 
"Stuart,"  he  said,  "will  you  see  my  wife  to 
her  carriage?  She  doesn't  feel  well.  I'm 
going." 

The  soldier  advanced.  Marjorie  glared 
at  him  with  the  eyes  of  an  animal  who  sees 
her  young  taken  away  from  her,  and  he 
drew  back,  his  face  full  of  pity.  She  threw 
one  last  despairing  look  at  Leonard  as  he 
turned  down  the  platform,  and  in  that  last 
glimpse  of  his  strangely  numb  face  she  saw 
how  he  was  suffering.  She  had  a  revulsion 
of  feeling;  a  sense  of  desolate  shame  swept 
over  her  which,  for  a  moment,  surmounted 
her  terror. 

She  had  failed  him!  Behaved  like  a 
coward.  Made  it  terrible  for  him  at  the 
very  last.  Oh,  if  he  would  only  look  at  her 
again !  The  whole  force  of  her  despair  went 
into  that  wish  —  and  Leonard  turned.  A 
[56] 


FOUE  DAYS 

few  yards  farther  down  the  platform  he 
swung  suddenly  about,  and  finding  her  face 
among  the  crowd,  he  tilted  his  chin  and 
flashed  his  white  smile  at  her  while  his 
eyes  lighted  and  his  lips  framed  the  word 
«  Smile." 

The  band,  which  had  been  gathering 
impetus  for  the  last  moment,  pealed  forth 
"Rule  Britannia."  Marjorie  smiled,  smiled 
as  she  never  had  before,  and  kissed  her 
hand.  He  waved  his  cap.  It  was  among  a 
forest  of  caps.  The  whistle  shrieked.  The 
guards  slammed  the  doors.  Through  the  fog 
the  train  was  moving. 

"  Rule,  Britannia !  Britannia  rules  the  waves ! 
Britons  never  shall  be  slaves." 

The  crowds  cheered.  There  came  an 
acrid  rush  of  smoke,  which  swallowed  up  the 
moving  train  with  its  cargo  of  khaki-clad 
boys.  Above  the  cheering  the  hunchback, 
still  dodging  under  the  elbows  of  the  crowd, 
was  calling  loudly, 

"I  came  that  they  might  have  Life  —  Life 
—  Life!" 

The  people  stared  down  at  the  little 
sardonic  face. 

"Crazy?"  they  muttered. 
[571 


FOUR  DAYS 

The  cripple  shouted  with  laughter. 

"Life  — Life—  Life!"  he  said. 

When  the  smoke  had  cleared  again,  the 
tracks  were  empty,  stretching  away  into 
blackness. 


THE   END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


MAR 

3  Jun'49AP 


LD  21-100m-9,'47(A5702sl6)476 


IB  32910 


863749 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


